


In which Eridan falls in love with a long dead composer through his music

by CoralFlowerBad (CoralFlower)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Humanstuck, M/M, huge plot twist, violinist eridan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/CoralFlowerBad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So don't read this if you are the kind of person who has panic attacks thinking about whether anything is real or if it's just a figment of your imagination. You could maybe read the first part but definitely not the second. </p><p>I don't ever state characters' names, so if that confuses you maybe find something else to read </p><p>I'm gonna do the thing where I put part of it in the summary, sorry for making you read the first sentence like three times assuming you decide to read this. </p><p>You love the melody, the rhythm, you love letting it pour through you until nothing else is left, none of the anger, none of the pretenses, just you, and everyone says you're needy but this is all you really need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Eridan falls in love with a long dead composer through his music

You love the melody, the rhythm, you love letting it pour through you until nothing else is left, none of the anger, none of the pretenses, just you, and everyone says you're needy but this is all you really need. The music will never abandon you, the strings don't care how opinionated you are, the conductor doesn't know a thing about you and wouldn't care if she did. The only thing that matters is the sound, and how everything twists and clashes and works, in a way that people just don't. People twist and clash and fall apart, and it doesn't even sound harmonious when it happens. 

People twist and clash and break, like shouting at her when she tells you to get out of her life, saying that you never even cared anyway, so there, even though it was obvious that you did, you did. 

You did, you cared so much, so much your heartstrings burned and you couldn't make music anymore, not with people, not with imperfect, flawed, forsaken people. People just like you. You're tired of everything being broken. 

After so long your blood is slow, viscous, your heart feels arrhythmic but isn't, and when he enters stage right, it's, well, right. 'He' being a composer. A dead composer. You get the sheet music for one of his lesser concertos, then have to go out and buy a new E string (crap) and all the while you're thinking about those first few lines you got a glimpse of, how you can't think of anything you'd like to change in them. You get back to the music eventually, and when you do you swear it's like scrolling down a web page and there's all these competing colors and you somehow focus on them all at once with your eyes closed, it's that easy. Meaning it's really fucking hard; you hate this guy so much right now. But then something clicks and wow, _wow_ , this is amazing. This is like fucking floating on water right now. You stand there with your mouth open in shock and sweat pouring down your face as you stare at the last page and that is a thing you could never get tired of playing. 

You go to bed exhausted but satisfied and when you wake up you go to the music store with a smile on your face, and you're a frequent customer there so it isn't really weird when the guy behind the counter comments on it. You gently, reverently place the compilation on the counter instead of tossing it down like you do to most of the shit you buy here, and you have no idea what your reply was or how the rest of that short conversation went because you're too busy wondering if this amazing person is as perfect as he seems. 

You really hope that's the case. 

You turn to the first page. Touch the rosin to the bow, touch the bow to the string. 

You play. 

A few hours later you try to speak a single word, of surprise, of amazement, and you realise you forgot to hydrate. 

You would have been less surprised if you forgot to breathe. 

In the months that follow you look up biographies, buy more music, arrange gigs, buy more music, slowly fall in love (because love at first sight-read is bee ess), buy more music. 

Maybe you have a problem, but you're happy. For the first time since she left you, you're happy. 

This music, this composer, this perfection, it's enough. It's enough in so many equally indescribable ways. It's enough; it's perfect. 

\---

You only notice him because of his eyes; once you've noticed him you find him in every audience you play for. His eyes, intense, amazing. Perfect, even. 

He draws you. Sweeping arcs of graphite on the page. Simple yet perfect. You can see that much from the stage, as he always (always) gets a front row seat. You figure you're his idol or something. Whatever. 

He draws you. Captures your attention perfectly in a sweeping line of eyebrows. He distracts you with his perfection, not enough to cause flaws in your playing, but enough for you to know it's there. 

You can't help but feel attracted to him. 

That scares you; ever since you fell in love with the music you haven't needed anyone else.

You finally get to meet him one day; it's raining, his ride is taking care of some emergency and can't make it for a matter of hours, so you offer to drive him home. You learn his name and that he's freaking out, because he is, 'like, your biggest fan and this is just, totally every fan's dream, getting to meet you.' You mention in passing the drawings he did of you and he asks you to sign one. And of course you agree, you've been dying to get a closer look at those. He holds the sketchbook out to you when you pull up to his house, and you look up at him, amazed, and find yourself unable to look away from his eyes, and on impulse you jot down your phone number along with your autograph-- really, that was stupid, what if he spreads it all over the internet?

But he doesn't, and you get back from the music store one day to find your phone lit up on the charger-- he _just_ texted you, and you think you can be forgiven for practicing not even half as much as normal today. You are woefully unprepared for your concert tonight, but it still sounds okay, because you're you.

He surprises you with a painting of the most perfect person to ever live, your favorite composer, and your eyebrows shoot up and you smile absentmindedly as you look it over and by the time you meet his eyes it's a full on grin. 

You don't think you could ever get enough of his face, and you hold up the painting and tell him that this, this is perfect. 

He's smiling too, and it's completely adorable. You ask him if there's any supplies he's been needing, offer to drive him to the art supply store or whatever they call those and spend money on him. He politely declines, so you ask if he wants to go out for coffee but forget to say the for coffee part, and he asks if you're asking him out and you say sure, if he wants you to be. You don't want him to think you're only asking because of the painting, so you tell him that isn't it, that the painting simply acted as a mind-altering substance to let you potentially embarrass yourself in front of him. He's laughing at you and your heart sinks, but then he's nodding and saying yes, he'll go out with you. Wow. 

You notice he has a very slight lisp, apparently it's worse when he's excited about something. You kind of like how it was you who brought that out.

You introduce him to your father, and that's about when it all falls apart; your dad is looking at you like you're crazy and you have no idea why until he tells you, he tells you there's no one there. Which is silly, of course there's someone there, you can see him. You can see him and hear him and touch him and kiss him, kiss him, but never any further. Never any further, and it just now occurs to you to wonder why.

He's looking at you. His eyes; intense, accusatory.  
"You said you loved me."  
"You aren't real." His lips (his beautiful, enticing lips) curve into a smirk.  
"Then why are you still talking to me?" There are so many things you want to say to him right now.  
I loved you.  
You should know the answer to that.  
"It's because you still believe in me, isn't it." It's not even really a question, the way he says it. Of course you believe in him. You had lived entirely alone, talking to no one besides him, he was the only person in your life, and you hate how it's not even worth it to win an argument with him because he isn't real. You should have realised, you know you have this need for perfection, this hunger for something, anything that isn't flawed. He had flaws, but superficial ones, like how he could barely say his own name because of his lisp. That part was adorable, seriously. 

You try to ignore him but when you go to bed he's there, watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake. You toss and turn and then he's gone. He's gone. 

He left you. 

It's late, and you're exhausted. You call out to him without a response. Again you say his name, and he appears out of the darkness, face illuminated by some light out of nowhere.  
"Yes?" You reach out to him, you can't even see your hand but you feel him, he's warm. You're freezing. You sob, and pull him into the bed with you, snuggle into his chest and close your eyes. He wraps his arms around you and you hate yourself because _you are making a mistake._ You can't help it. He feels real. How are you seeing him if he isn't there, that shouldn't be possible, why can't your brain be _perfect_ instead of fundamentally flawed like this, it baffles you. 

You sob.

He’s there. He’s holding you in his arms, telling you it’ll be okay, telling you he’ll stay with you forever, that he’s only yours.

You keep crying because you don’t know if you even want that anymore, you want to believe in him, you want him to be real, but you can’t help feeling like something as perfect as him _can’t_ really exist, and you should have known.

You should have known this would all be lie, that none of your happiness these past few months would be valid, because what have you ever done to deserve it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, you’ve spent your whole life honing your skills in music and forgotten that people skills are a thing too. You know you have sort of an off-putting personality. You still had hoped, though, that maybe someone would eventually click with you, and maybe that’s why this is hurting so much, because you believed in him and his perfection and _it isn’t real._

It isn’t real.

You wake up the next morning in his arms, and he presses his forehead to yours, tells you he believes in you, that you’re perfect and amazing and he doesn’t need anything else if you will just stay with him. Talk to him. Anything, so long as you don’t ignore him, because he can’t take this for much longer.

You shake your head and hide your face because you hate him looking at you, you hate the accusatory stare and you hate how you’re alienating yourself from the only person who actually _cares_ about you, you hate how he isn’t real.

You feel his hands on your neck and face, and he pushes your hands away and makes you look at him and all you see on his face is sadness and it’s so weird to consider how you are completely alone in your room right now so you don’t. You kiss him instead, and he twists to pull you into his arms and the two of you collapse on your bed and for one single moment you’re soaring above the ground.

You pull away, because this isn’t all you have. He isn’t the only thing keeping you here. You tell him you can’t do this, you tell him he needs to stay away from you, and you sprint out of your bedroom and down the stairs to your practice room.

You fumble getting out your music, and you notice _him_ out of the corner of your eye.

You turn to the last page number in the table of contents, the last song you haven’t already played, titled _Moto Perpetuo._ You touch the rosin to the bow, touch the bow to the string.

You play.


End file.
